The last time I split up with a long-term partner, I fled to Greece with a girlfriend for a hedonistic week of partying. We stayed up all night, slept all day, drank far too much ouzo and flirted with random foreign men. It was fun and distracting, but I returned exhausted and involved in a messy, long-distance rebound affair with an Italian who was so vain he shaved his chest and wore a stick-on nose stud.

Fast-forward 10 years and I find myself once again packing my bags and moving out of my latest boyfriend's flat after a four-year relationship, with a burning desire to jump on a plane and escape from everything.

But while a "get over him" holiday is exactly what I want, this time I'm determined to do things differently. An older and wiser me is going to do something that's actually good for me. A yoga holiday in the middle of nowhere - just what the doctor ordered.

Huzur Vadisi, a mountain retreat inland from Göcek in Lycia, south-west Turkey, is suitably away from it all. The name means "peaceful valley", which it certainly is: 10 traditional yurts are dotted around fig and olive groves circled by pine forests. There's no mobile phone signal, instead the sound of goat bells rings in the air. Hammocks are strung between trees and there's a lovely natural stone swimming pool, a traditional wooden summerhouse scattered with cushions and a vine-shaded terrace for meals.

Set up by brother and sister Ian and Jane Worral on the site of a rundown farm, everything has been built by hand with an eco-friendly ethos. Jane suffered from ME for years and wanted to create a healing place for a holiday in the heart of nature. It's so unspoilt, guests are even warned that hedgehogs sounding like 700lb wild boar sometimes snuffle around at night.

The holiday I'm on is run by Simon Low, co-founder of London's famed Triyoga studios. Silver-haired, and possessing one of those hypnotic "yoga" voices, Simon had a previous life in the music industry before changing career. With more than 17 years' teaching experience, he now runs trips around the world, as well as the Yoga Academy, one of the most respected teacher-training courses in the UK.

Many people here are repeaters, but my niggling fear that yoga trips attract neurotic middle-aged women or diehard hippies with overgrown toenails soon subsides when I meet the other guests. There are two couples, a guy on his own, a mother and son, and a girl who's not done yoga before but fancies a spot of rest and relaxation.

Simon sets the scene for the week. He wants it to be a "yoga holiday" rather than a "retreat", so while we're asked to observe silence in the mornings, he promises it's going to be fun, too. We'll have six (yes, six!) hours of yoga a day - three from 8am before breakfast and three from 5pm - before dinner. The rest of the time is free to chill out or ... well, chill out, really.

I explain to Simon that I've just split up with someone and am feeling emotionally battered, and he tells me how yoga holidays are great for helping people deal with break-ups. "It speeds up the grieving process and helps you get back in touch with yourself," he says. "People go through huge changes, often spending a lot of time crying. It brings everything out."

Our mornings start with the chime of Tibetan cymbals heralding the first class. We walk around in silence. It's actually nice not having to talk to people or listen to others' conversations.

The yoga sala is a beautiful wooden structure, covered with vines. It's very atmospheric with dappled sunlight falling on the floor and the call to prayer from mosques in neighbouring villages echoing around the mountains. Simon practises what he calls "yin and yang" yoga. Mornings are for the more dynamic yang sessions; afternoons are dedicated to yin, a deeply relaxing, meditative style. He's got a great way of explaining why a particular position is good for you, and cites poems by the 13th-century Sufi poet Rumi.

I'm amazed by how quickly a three-hour class passes. And amazed again at how quickly whole days go by. There's a huge and healthy breakfast after morning classes (muesli, yogurt, fresh fruit, cheese, tomatoes, home-baked bread and olives), a huge and healthy lunch (mostly vegetarian, utterly delicious), and a huge and healthy evening meal on the candlelit verandah. In between, I lie in a hammock, reading, or laze by the pool - once I even venture out for a walk, up into the mountains.

On day four, just as I'm starting to feel a tad claustrophobic, we all head to Göcek, a charming little marina town, 20 minutes by taxi. We spend the day on yachts exploring scattered islands, swimming in the sea and feasting on fresh fish, then shopping for souvenirs and dining on the waterfront before heading back.

With all the fresh air, good food and yoga I'm feeling fantastically healthy - but secretly slightly miffed that I've not yet shed a tear. Then, towards the end of the week, it creeps up on me. In a session one afternoon I find myself sobbing into my yoga bolster, hoping no one can hear. It happens again the next day, and once when I'm alone. There's nothing I can do to stop myself from welling up, but afterwards the sense of peace is profound.

Something about the tranquillity of Huzur Vadisi gets under your skin, and there are lots of stories of people making life changes after they've been on Simon's course. One woman gave up her high-powered job to volunteer in Sri Lanka before setting up her own consultancy, others have written books, some have simply not left.

As the days go by, I do notice a subtle change. Nothing seismic, but I feel calmer and happier, and realise I'm not still constantly going over our break-up argument when I'm in class trying to meditate. And the idea of being single again no longer seems so scary.

In our final yoga class, Simon reads another poem by Rumi. One line sticks in my mind. "You moan, 'She left me.' 'He left me.' Twenty more will come. Be empty of worrying."